[Intro]

[Verse]
Yeah the 650's straight but it ain't enough space for me
I bought the 760 with the paper plates on it
Get paid to show my face, night clubs in different states
Pretty girl's face in the pillow while I grip her waist
I go psycho, Norman Bates when I'm working on my tape
Same baby model Polo that I had on yesterday
I ain't going home until I handle my business
'Cause every month real n***as and bitches waiting for Spitta
They know the planes got it, they're frequent flyer milеage
Got a Gucci and a Louis scarf in the same pockеt
Them hoes say I should stop it, say I'm getting way too cocky
But from my mind I block it out, [?] drop my top
Look at me, we bout to pop, haters hoping I won't drop
Like a negotiator talking to a suicidal lady
Who on the highest floor of the Trump threatening to jump
FS Jets give you what you want
Tell the bellman from the [?] take my luggage from the trunk
It's located in the front, 911
Not an emergency code, simply the car that I drove
Let my girl drive it once, she was all over the road
Out of control, almost wrapped us around a telephone pole
Spitta Martin Lawrence, you n***as Tommy and Cole
Old sideline n***as, it's your bed time, n***as
I am on my grind, Mr. I don't mind colliding with you
On the charts I put you off, make you a hard to find n***a
You a future VH1 behind the music kind of n***a
Old and broke in your interviews with your children crying with you
[Outro]
Yeah, Jet